“Marcia,” said Bartley, “you're such a reasonable person when you're the most unreasonable, that I wonder I _ever_ quarrel with you. I rather think I'll let _you_ call on Miss Kingsbury alone. I shall suffer agonies of suspicion, but it will prove that I have perfect confidence in you.” He threw her a kiss from the door, and ran down the stairs. When he returned, an hour later, he found her waiting up for him. “Why, Marcia!” he exclaimed. “Oh! I just wanted to say that we will both go to call on her _very soon_. If I sent you, she might think I was mad, and I won't give her that satisfaction.” “Noble girl!” cried Bartley, with irony that pleased her better than praise. Women like to be understood, even when they try not to be understood. When Marcia went with Bartley to call, Miss Kingsbury received her with careful, perhaps anxious politeness, but made no further effort to take her up. Some of the people whom Marcia met at Miss Kingsbury's called; and the Witherbys came, father, mother, and daughter together; but between the evident fact that the Hubbards were poor, and the other evident fact that they moved in the best society, the Witherbys did not quite know what to do about them. They asked them to dinner, and Bartley went alone; Marcia was not well enough to go. He was very kind and tractable, now, and went whenever she bade him go without her, though tea at the Hallecks was getting to be an old story with him, and it was generally tea at the Hallecks to which she sent him. The Halleck ladies came faithfully to see her, and she got on very well with the two older sisters, who gave her all the kindness they could spare from their charities, and seemed pleased to have her so pretty and conjugal, though these things were far from them. But she was afraid of Olive at first, and disliked her as a friend of Miss Kingsbury. This rather attracted the odd girl. What she called Marcia's snubs enabled her to declare in her favor with a sense of disinterestedness, and to indulge her repugnance for Bartley with a good heart. She resented his odious good looks, and held it a shame that her mother should promote his visible tendency to stoutness by giving him such nice things for tea. “Now, I like Mr. Hubbard,” said her mother placidly. “It's very kind of him to come to such plain folks as we are, whenever we ask him; now that his wife can't come, I know he does it because he likes us.” “Oh, he comes for the eating,” said Olive, scornfully. Then another phase of her mother's remark struck her: “Why, mother!” she cried, “I do believe you think Bartley Hubbard's a distinguished man somehow!” “Your father says it's very unusual for such a young man to be in a place like his. Mr. Witherby really leaves everything to him, he says.” “Well, I think he'd better not, then! The Events has got to be perfectly horrid, of late. It's full of murders and all uncleanness.”